


All The Light From My Skin

by RhineGold



Category: Hannibal (TV), Ravenous (1999)
Genre: Gen, M/M, as well as rating increases and extra warnings, but nothing bad happens to abigial, she's had too much happen to her already, there will be more characters and relationships added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: She'd asked him about the name and he'd shrugged, that barely-there lifting of the shoulders that infuriates her the most, the most calculated of his attempts at casual body language.When she went on to ask him when and why he'd done all this, his face had darkened to a more genuine expression of sadness, painting his age across his features in a way she'd never seen him wear before. "Because I hoped," He had offered finally, and she had let the matter drop. There had been another passport in the envelope and they both knew why.Abigail is taken to a secluded private school during the winter break so Hannibal can spend some quality time with friends who share a similar... appetite.
Relationships: sekrits for now
Kudos: 1





	All The Light From My Skin

~*~

The engine makes very little noise even as they roar up the winding, empty mountain road, a testament to the level of engineering that has gone into their rental vehicle. It should come as no surprise really - her companion has never been one to spare a single expense. 

When she had commented on the ostentatiousness of what was really to be their get-away car, he had merely smiled that flat, sharp smile, his eyes sparkling a colour both rich and empty. "One should always indulge in luxury when one might," He'd said quietly, warmly. She had studied the way his lips formed the words, slowly, almost as though savoring their taste, and realized this was to be her life now. Luxury and lip reading. What a twist.

Her hair is matted on the side of her throat where it falls between her and the window, but she doesn't move from her half-slumber until the car begins to slow. She sits up, stretching in her seat subtly, as they approach a rather formidable pair of wrought iron gates. There is a moment where they sit silently, contemplating the high wall that has sprung, seemingly from the top of the mountain itself, and she almost thinks to speak. 

Before she can shatter the stillness of the frosted windows and barely tinkling classical piano rising from the surround sound, the gates swing inward, an almost-improbably oiled maneuver that seems at odds with their aged appearance. On his side of the car, his lips tighten in the thin-lipped smile that is more grimace than not, and she wonders if he is afraid. His shoulders are as firm-set and level as always when he puts the car into gear and drives on.

She cannot help but turn to watch the gates closing behind her, and for a moment, there is only the soft sound of a hoof striking out on icy ground, echoing numbly to her left. The gates are like the wide, wide spread of a stag, shrinking and closing in on themselves in a way that feels like falling. She turns in her seat and sits forward again, her insides sloshing with nausea and dizziness. He is watching her out of the corner of his eye and she lifts her right elbow to the doorframe, letting it rest there and brace her chin. Schooling her features, she manages to look bored. 

The smile, still thin, is more genuine this time. Behind her left side, she hears and ignores the sounds of footsteps in snow. This is her life now. They are high in the forests of the Appalachias, but there will be no stags.

~*~ 

The building is pretty - classical and graceful. It reminds her of Monticello, of a fieldtrip in her 11th year, where the girls around her still giggled freely and her father took his monthly trips alone. For the first time, the biting air outside the car truly tastes of freedom. 

There is a man waiting for them, standing atop the short flight of stairs, dressed in an impeccably fitted coat, despite his frame. He is tall, taller even than Hannibal, with a sturdy build that seems carved out of stone. There is something a bit rounded to him, like a man who is slowly gaining weight, or one who has just lost a considerable amount of it and not yet learned to carry himself. Given the exact tailoring of his thick, woolen peacoat, she assumes the latter. 

His hand is bare and extremely warm as he grasps hers, shaking it twice in a firm, yet gentle gesture. Up close, he really is a bear of a man, with hair that was once bright red, now faded to a pale rusty yellow. His smile is quick and hesitant around the edges, and he seems genuinely concerned he is squeezing too tightly as they clasp hands. Her mother would have called him a 'gentle giant' and loved him immediately, and somehow, this makes it easier and much harder at the same time. 

He straightens then to his full height, reaching out to the man behind her. "Dr. Lecter, I presume," his voice is jovial and a shade too nasally for his size and she finds it endearing immediately. 

"Hannibal, please," He returns the gesture perfunctorily, keeping his voice clipped and short. She realizes she was right, and Hannibal is uncertain here - wary, if not outright afraid.

"I'm Jacob Hart," He replies, turning to include her in the address. To her alone, he imparts what Hannibal must already know, "I'm the Headmaster here at St. Sebastian's." 

"My niece," Hannibal says, more easily now. "Cordelia Ruta." The name rolls easily off his tongue and she wonders how long he has practiced it to make it so. 

When he'd first given her the passport and plane ticket, she'd been confused, overwhelmed by her situation and his apparent comfort in it. How he seemed to have everything in hand in ways she'd never even considered, so like an unlike her father, it seemed. 

She'd asked him about the name and he'd shrugged, that barely-there lifting of the shoulders that infuriates her the most, the most calculated of his attempts at casual body language. 

When she went on to ask him when and why he'd done all this, his face had darkened to a more genuine expression of sadness, painting his age across his features in a way she'd never seen him wear before. "Because I hoped," He had offered finally, and she had let the matter drop. There had been another passport in the envelope and they both knew why.

The headmaster, Hart, opens the doors then, ushering them out of the cold. She follows without paying attention to the quiet conversation happening behind her. It is too far to the left to make out without being obvious, and she is more fascinated by the arch of plaster and gilt over her head. The foyer of the building is gorgeous, a raised dome painted with delicate figures of heavenly hosts and any number of saints and apostles. 

Moving deeper into the space, she lifts her head and turns to take it all in - a beautiful expanse of serene and wise figures, some playfully cavorting with cherubs, others engaged in a discourse that seems positively Grecian in setup. Something about it is refreshing and unusual, all at the same time. 

When she becomes aware of both men watching her, she brings herself out of the ceiling and back into the room. 

"Your coat, Cordelia," Hannibal is saying, and she flushes as she fumbles with the buttons then, aware that she has tracked snow and wet onto the gleaming wooden floors. 

The headmaster comes forward to take it, stepping carefully onto her right side with such directness that it occurs to her that he must know. 

He keeps his voice low when he speaks, audible because of his position, and he lifts his eyes to the ceiling, "You like art, I take it?"

She follows his gaze, nodding absently, and suddenly, what had niggled in the back of her mind comes to the forefront. "There's no God."

"Beg pardon?"

"On the ceiling. There's saints and angels, but no God, no Christ."

He seems pleased by her keenness and she doesn't have to glance behind his shoulder to see that sharp smile she knows is splitting Hannibal's face. 

"Yes, that's right," He replies, keeping his voice low and gentle. She realizes he means to talk only to her, and the exclusion of Hannibal pleases her on a deep-set level. "The murals were commissioned deliberately in that manner. I think you'll find our curriculum is less... ecclesiastical than our name and décor might sometimes suggest. At least, in the traditional sense."

She wants to ask him what he means by that, but Hannibal is clearing his throat across the space, collecting their attention. "I should put the car away," He offers. 

"Of course. If you pull round to the left, you'll find-"

She drifts away from them again, trailing across the polished floor. It is warm in the room with her scarf still wound tight, but she isn't ready to be that vulnerable here yet. 

At the end of the room, a set of doors lead to what look to be a sitting room, and a conference space. Another sign indicates she might find the headmaster's offices and other administrative posts.

She glances down the long, dark hall, unlit and heavily paneled in a rich, dark wood. At the far end, something moves quickly, slamming through a door to the outside. In the seam of light, she sees a pale coat and mid-length hair neither blond nor brown, and the person is gone. 

Looking back at her hosts, she sees neither has noticed or acknowledged the interloper. 

She takes one step towards the darkened hallway when suddenly, the Headmaster is there at her left elbow, turning her with apologetic strength back out of the corridor. 

"Miss Ruta, if you like, I'll show you to your rooms while your uncle fetches the luggage?"

She looks up at his gentle, concerned face. There is genuine warmth in his features and she realizes he is terrified that she will not like him. Her conscious wars with her good sense, and she says quietly, this time, just for him to hear, "...My name is Abigail."

~*~


End file.
